Conffessions part 2: The Preacher's Daughter
by angelofnight
Summary: Part TWO!! Wow, two hours to write the first one, three days to write this one!!!


The Preachers Daughter  
  
"The Preachers' daughter led me in her room. In 1732 to love me was her doom. With the silken blood, I wrote a poem of love, apon her ivory skin." (Dance of the Vampires)  
  
A/N: This story is going to be longer than the last one, for not only do I need some substance to this second story without making it sound too much like the first, I would also like to try and tell the story of how the Count Von Krolock became master of the vampires of Transylvania.  
  
The Count Von Krolock snarled hatefully, watching his Master with pure disgust. Since he had been turned into one of the undead, the one whom had made him ocassionally appeared before him in all of his dark glory. Every decade or so, the Count would be moving through the night only to have the shadow of the Ancient One fall over him in the moonlight. Other shadows would join his, other vampires crowding around his strong and powerful frame. They were his other children of the night, those who had chosen to embrace their immortality. Together they seemed an impenetrable force, and the Count deplored feeling at all weak, especially now as a vampire. The blood he had feasted on over the past 115 years had made him stronger, but this maker of his was still master of all.  
  
"A century and fifteen years . . . and you still taunt me!" He growelled viciously. He was the only dark childe who had run from the Ancient One, and this master had wounded pride, and loathing that one would not embrace the gift of immortality.  
  
"I do not taunt you." The Ancient One stated, his golden hair falling over his strong but slender shoulders in loose curls. His eyes were a strange, piercing steel grey in the moonlight. Although he appeared to be quite skinny, the Count knew all too well the strength hidden beneath his flowing white cloak. "Wandering the night alone is a folly, and you still do it! I did not place you in this position only to have you make yourself a target for slayers. Our strength lies in numbers more than it does if you remain alone. You must join us."  
  
"I will give you the same answer as I did in 1720." The Count spat. "No! I will not be one of your damned idolites!" He had never bowed to anyone before. He certainly would not do so now. If anyone would bow, it would be the Ancient One to him. "What sort of master can you be, if you admit to being weak outside your circle of children?"  
  
By the faces of the other fledglings, it seemed that no one had ever challenged their master in such a fashion before. No one had ever even considered that he might have little more strength than any of them. Yet the Count was far beyond irritated by the Ancient One by now. The one who had stolen his mortality, and blackened his soul.  
  
"I have seen your visits with the village girl." The Ancient one had ignored the challenge, as though it were nothing more than a question of curiosity and ignorance to him. "The girl's father is the village pastor, Giovanni! A bible bearing slayer! Can you think of an easier way to get trapped and destroyed?"  
  
"What a loss that would be." The Count muttered.  
  
"You cannot have her, Giovanni. The girl will despise you once you have taken from her. Do you wish to change her, or make it so that she cannot live without you?"  
  
"If the choice is between being alone, or being with you and your group of mindless idolites, then I would prefer being alone. But even I do not need to be alone." The Count whirled to storm away. This was going to get them nowhere. Yet immediately, he felt the arms of the Ancient One trying to restrain him and hold him back.  
  
Instantly infuriated by this act of attempted control, the Count spun around, fangs bared as a growl tore from his throat. He lunged at the Ancient One in a rage, surprised at how easily he could knock the elder to the ground. The Ancient One himself had a look of horrified surprise on his pale face as he fought to push away his own childe. Yet the Count was not to be stopped, and he threw himself down on his maker, tearing at his throat viciously with his fangs, feeling the powerful blood pour out onto his tongue. He could not drain and kill this older one, but as he fed on the all-powerful blood, he could feel the elder weaken considerably. There were gasps, cries, and screams of terror and rage coming from the surrounding fledglings, yet no one made a move to protect their master, for fear of sharing the same wicked fate.  
  
Slowly drawing up from the throat of the Ancient One, the Count licked his lips slowly, mockingly, in a sensual manner as the eyes of his maker stared at him with hurt betrayl. A surge of triumph went through the young fledgling. Slowly standing, he watched as the Ancient One attempted to sit up. Yet nothing seemed to be happening. He could only struggle up a few inches, and he was slow to heal. Tuning, the Count siezed apon the low hanging branch of a White Ash tree, and tore it away from the trunk so that it snapped, the broken end like a jagged spear. When he turned back to the Ancient One, all knew what was about to happen, and all were powerless to stop it. The makeshift spear flew at the master of them all, and impaled him into the cold ground.  
  
The Ancient One was dead. And all stared at his body in shock for a long moment. Finally, looking back up at the Count, all of his fellow fledglings realized something. They were mostly all of the same strength. And although they might still have a leader, and might still remain together, they did not all need one another. Yet they had been mindless followers for decades, if not centuries . . . and this one who had drunk of the Ancient One's blood, was now their master.  
  
Walking briskly through the forest, the Count came apon a small deer trail which he had used a dozen times over in the past. It led him right into the nearest village, where he had fed on more than a few occassions. Finding his victims there was easy, for there was always a foolish villager who lay drunken on the side streets after nightfall, or a midwife going to and from her home to the homes of women about to, or having just, give birth. Such activities were common in the growing community, and he liked that the strange deaths had hardly been noticed for the first year or so.  
  
Once people had begun to realize there was a night predator in the village, it became harder to find a victim to feed upone. Yet there were still those who were foolhardy enough to risk venturing out into his domain of moonlight and stars. Those poor fools were usually easy to find, and even easier to dispatch once he was through with their blood. Yet as of late his heavy feedings had grown scarcer in the community, for now he had a new source.  
  
Lallie was the 19-year-old daughter of the village pastor, who had grown up with the outward appearance and demeanor of a saint. With long honey gold hair she kept back in a prim braid, and eyes like sapphires, she appeared the very persona of an angel come down to earth. She was the sort of daughter that was quiet and obedient. She attended her father's masses often, and brought him his supper each night if his conffessional meetings ran late into the night.  
  
She was vuluptuous and alluring, despite her coy outward appearance; but inwardly she had an intense hunger for a world outside of her father's holier-than-though Christianity and purity. Her father's station in the community kept any possible suitors away from the door, and she was tired of the isolation. She wanted to be impure, and to have the kind of life only those who the bible damned could have.  
  
It was no wonder they'd found one another in the night.  
  
On a night much like this, the Count had been following that deer path to the village, and stopped cold when he heard the soft and husky voice of a woman singing not far away. It was not the simple folk tune or hyme that he was used to hearing from the villagers, either. This song spoke of the many evils in the night which came to claim those who dared venture away from the light of their homes. The tone of the voice immediately told him how she wanted it to happen to her. And before the Count ever even saw her, he knew she would have exactly what she wanted.  
  
(flashback)  
  
When he found her by a small path of wildflowers not far off the path, her back was to him, her honey-gold hair falling freely like a waterfall down to the small of her back, and over her shoulders. As he silently approached, and looked over her shoulder, he saw that one of the strands of hair curled upwards, carressing the part of her breast exposed by her sensible nightgown. Yes, she was out here in her night things! The Count had crouched behind her then, slipping his arms tightly around her and pinned her arms to her sides, one hand momentarily coming up just long enough to pull her hair from her shoulder and throat. Then, he held her tightly again as he let his teeth tear into her ivory white skin.  
  
She had resisted him at first, terrified of what or who might have her. Yet when he started to draw her blood from her healthy frame, she slowly seemed to calm and relax, her body shivering from excitement and a strange sense of arousal. Even the Count was startled with the soft moan that abruptly escaped her lips. Although hungry enough to kill the girl, he was curious enough to release her after only a few sips of the coppery tasting liquid, and pulling back gently, laying her on the ground to recover.  
  
Her eyes were closed for a while, and he watched with fascination as she calmed down as though from an intense episode with a seceret lover. He watched her curiously this whole time, waiting for her eyes to open. And when they finally did, they were quite calm as they looked up into his eyes. He could see a strange darkness in her that defied all her father had ever taught her. He knew who she was, for he'd passed her cottage many times in the past. Yet he never would have imagined she could be like this outside the watchful eyes of her parents.  
  
"What are you?" Her voice came soft in the dark night. "What have you done to me? I want to feel that again." It only took him a moment to smile, and reach up to touch her cheek.  
  
"Then you will." He agreed softly. "But not tonight."  
  
(end flashback (A/N : Sorry guys, italics don't work at ff.net for me!) )  
  
Since that first meeting, he had met with her almost every night. They would find places to explore together, usually places one would fear at night. Yet the Count feared almost nothing, except for the eternity ahead of him. And Lallie had nothing to fear when she was near him. In fact, she seemed rather fearless reguardless of whether or not he was around. She had a strange afinity to cemetaries, the likes of which made even his bloodthirsty heart shudder. Often she would have him meet her in the village cemetary, near the large tomb of the great royals and their ancestors. Once she had him use his unnatural strength to break open the door, and in that room which reeked of death and corpses, she had allowed him to feed from her. She was fascinating, even with her morbid desires and lust for death. Often he wondered if she wanted to die, but she was so full of life and had so many desires that he had grown to believe that perhaps his immortality was what she craved.  
  
The last night he'd seen her, she had whispered three strange foreign words to him, which had made him pull away from her eager throat and fingers. Slightly undressed, as his encounters with her adventureous spirit often found him, he had stared down at her, partly in amazement, and partly in horror. She had spoken words of love! He had never in his entire life heard a young woman speak those particular words to him. That evening, he had departed as quickly as he considered polite, assuring her he would again find her the following evening . . . at her own abode where she lived with her mother and father. The idea of it thrilled her, and she promised to keep her shutters open to him, and her bedside lamp burning brightly.  
  
He found that brightly lit window easily, a short ways off from the village church. It was almost painful to approach that house, as the shadow of the cross, atop the small church tower, fell down over the house of the preacher. Luckily, he needed to find the other side of the house to find the lit window. The shadow of the house protected him from the pain of the cross.  
  
Reaching that open and lit window, he reached up to lightly stroke the glass. It was cold to the touch, but many things were at this time of night. Lifting himself up onto the wide sill, he crouched there, watching as she sat with her back to him, combing a brush through her hair. She could not see him in the mirror, of course. He cast no reflection. He had no soul.  
  
"Well ? Aren't you going to invite me in ?"  
  
Whirling, Lallie dropped her brush with a loud clatter to the floor, and they both winced at the same time. Luckily, it did not seem to waken any of the other occupants in the house. She stood and rushed over towards him, taking his shoulders excitedly.  
  
"Yes, come in !" She insisted. "I've been waiting for you all day and all night ! I thought you wouldn't come !"  
  
"Would I break a promise to you ?" He asked, stepping now safely and easily into her room, and taking her into a tight, affectionate embrace. Her eyes immediately widened.  
  
"Giovanni, you . . . you're hurting . . ." She gasped. "Your strength . . ."  
  
His own eyes widened slightly, and he loosened his grip. He'd hurt her ? He had held her tighter before, with no affect. He mused over this for a few moments, and then found the answer. He looked down into her awe-filled eyes.  
  
"I killed the man who made me, this evening." He told her softly. He had been honest to her about his life . . . told her long stories at her constant insistence. There was no reason to lie to her now. "Perhaps his blood has given me greater strength than I thought possible. I have never had the blood of my own kind before."  
  
Lallie thought about this a long moment with fascination, and then backed away. With his hands in her grasp, she led him to her bed, and then sat down, inviting him beside her.  
  
"Giovanni . . . show me your strength." She whispered. "I want to know what you are, be what you are. Please. I have never asked for your immortality before. But it's what I've wanted since I met you, my friend. Please ?"  
  
Friend ? What a strange word after she'd said the evening before that she loved him. Yet perhaps she had meant it in her own strange way. She was far stranger than any mortal he'd ever known. If possible, she probably would have run off and found a satanic cult to join. The very sort that sacrificed virgins, and drank the blood of animals. Yes, she probably loved what he did for her, and could do for her, more than anything else. But that did not make them any less friends.  
  
"You only think that you know what you're asking for."  
  
"Please, Giovanni. Before some man finally overcomes his fear of my father and tries to court me. Once someone comes forward . . . my father is desperate to marry me to the first man who asks for me. He may be a man of God, but he is poor and would see me settled comfortably. I do not wish to live here in that sort of a life. The kind you speak of with such freedom is what I want. I know it will not be perfect, but it will be better than being the pure little angel."  
  
He chuckled softly. That was solid arguement. Perhaps he could consider her plea. Yet he would not think about that now. Reaching out, he pushed her until she lay back across her bed, and settled himself over her, kissing her jawline until he kissed the pulse in her throat. He kissed harder and earnestly, until her coppery blood flowed into his throat once more.  
  
Immediately, his hunger once more overcame him, as it had so many thousands of times before. Yet the hunger was greater than any he'd ever known. Perhaps the change in him from the Ancient One's blood had caused this hunger. Yet he also knew, immediately, that he could not withstand such a hunger and restrain it when he already had the blood flowing into his mouth. He tried to tear his lips from her throat, but she only let out a short scream of pain when he did that. Covering her mouth to silence her, he drew back and covered the now torn flesh with his other hand. It spilled freely with each beat of her heart, coming in small gushes, seeping through his splayed fingers, and slipping down her shoulders.  
  
Staring at her helplessly, he wondered what to do. Could he drain a person wounded such as she now was. Although she stared back up at him, her eyes were glassy. They had no fear in them. Perhaps curiosity and also another sense of morbid bliss. Yet she was not afraid.  
  
"Lallie . . ." He breathed, wondering what to do. His hand left her wound and stroked down the length of her front, leaving a trail of her succulent blood. Again the hunger overcame him, and only able to pray that she would either become one of the immortals . . . or die painlessly . . . he lowered his mouth again to the gaping wound. 


End file.
